


My High Flyer

by 912luvjaxlean



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: AU, Detective Noir, F/M, Noir Detective, Snarky Jack, sulky Jack
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-25
Updated: 2020-01-25
Packaged: 2021-02-27 16:14:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 654
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22410037
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/912luvjaxlean/pseuds/912luvjaxlean
Summary: Falco is dead. And, the Robinson-Fisher Detective Agency is missing its female half. She's taken a flyer. Jack's left alone with his noirish thoughts.
Relationships: Phryne Fisher/Jack Robinson
Comments: 14
Kudos: 31
Collections: Miss Fisher's Flashfic Challenge Heat 3





	My High Flyer

Falco was dead. Word just came from Central. I shouldn’t know this. Since his corpse was still on the wharf at Billings Boat Yard. Nothing had officially been announced. But, Hugh Collins, gave me the intel. He’s my ex-deputy.

I have a lot of exes in my life. An ex-wife named Rose, perfect name for her. Plenty of thorns. An ex-job as a Detective Inspector. The new Commissioner strongly suggested that retirement was the solution to the problems we were having getting along.

Then, there’s my ex-partner, Phryne Fisher. She suddenly got into her airplane and flew away. Very little warning. One of her little impulses. A surprise for yours ever so truly perhaps?

Except for me putting together certain clues --New plane, new wardrobe, new maps? Spending time at the airfield with her ex-flyboy, Captain Courageous? –I would have been caught with my pants down. I often have them lowered to half mast when she’s around. But, I digress.

She’s like that. I like that she’s like that. Strong, independent, resourceful, self-sufficient. Can leave whenever she bloody feels like it. Go off on adventures. Leave me here holding the bag. She forgot her train case with all her lotions and potions in it. It was overlooked when I kicked it under my desk. I was giving her a farewell salute on top it at the time.

I don’t like that I’m sitting here in this closet of an office, thinking about where Phryne Fisher is and knowing that Falco bought it. Yeah, he paid his dues alright. Knife in the back kind of guy. Ditto on cause of death.

If I lean all the way back in my new desk chair, I can look out the window. My observation? The window needs washing. I should get to that. But there’s nothing to see except the roof of the next building, so why bother?

My name’s Robinson. Everyone calls me Jack. I run the Robinson-Fisher Detective Agency. The Fisher part of the team, is somewhere between land and air. Took a flyer. Har-de-har-har. I amuse myself with my witticisms. Later tonight, I’ll be eating Italian and amusing myself with Senora Strano.

Yeah, Phryne. I only said I was no longer ‘eating Italian’ when we reconciled the last time before the time before the last time we ended it. And, since your au gratin has taken wings, Concetta’s antipasto is on the menu again. Two can play at this revolving door romance we call a – a – I don’t know what the hell we call it.

Us? We? I don’t bloody know. Fate? Karma? Kismet? A life sentence without parole?

All I do know is that I was in the middle of it before I even knew I’d started. My divorce from ‘Thorn’ was on the roster. Whisky was my favorite food. I lived in my office at City South. I slept in the cells. I encountered a pink butterfly of a woman doing her own investigation in the middle of one of my crime scenes. Her lips were luscious. Her perfume was French. Her manner was beguiling. I was hooked.

I look back. A lot. I wonder. Frequently. I drink. Often. I try to fathom how a man with a heart as deep as the Pacific Ocean, could be treading water in a cesspool alone. It was a fact. She’s flying around like some swallowtail. Falco is a stiff. Without Falco, the information about the source of the counterfeit money was dead ended.

Fisher and I had traced all the way from Brisbane to Sydney and back to Melbourne on a train. We posed as Mr. and Mrs. Davis-Page. Private sleeper compartment. She kept ordering oysters in the dining car. The waiters took us for honeymooners. Then, we’d return to our ‘home’ to discuss the case. The clues were confusing. We had to take our time. The rocking of the train was conducive to coupling.


End file.
